Frozen Wings
by mystiri1
Summary: One-shot. Heero is stolen by the Wild Hunt, but what does the God of Death want with him? AU, shounen-ai.


**_Warning:_** _This story contains scenes of violence, and shounen-ai overtones. _

_**Author's note:** This was originally intended as the start of a longer story, but it will not be continued - I no longer like the ideas I had for the rest of it. As it does work as a standalone, I have decided to share it.  
_

* * *

It was cold, but that was nothing new. He was cold, but he'd long since ceased to notice, or care. It was the way things were, and it wasn't going to change.

Expressionless, frozen, Heero stood watch at the gate.

It towered behind him, dark, solid wood wrapped in gundanium bands. The first gate had been solid steel, but it didn't hold up to the extreme conditions. The cold had so fatigued the metal that it had shattered at the first harsh impact. Thankfully, that had been during testing – and Heero remembered the sheer rage that had resulted, the beating that had been the second most severe of his life. It was as if J somehow blamed him for the failure of the alloy's molecular bonds – logical, in a way, as it had been Heero who had delivered the blow in question. Yet he had only been completing the experiment as he was asked.

It was one of those times when he was left to wonder if there was a right or a wrong answer. Should he have not struck it so hard? Yet if it failed once it was in place, and J thought he hadn't been thorough in his testing – the consequences would have been dire.

But this wood, some rare tree from arctic climes, was incredibly weather resistant. Heero had assisted with the testing once again, and discovered that, far from being brittle, the wood seemed almost soft, giving slightly. Only slightly, though; the shock travelled back up his arms as his blows met with a resistance that was total, and left him feeling as if someone had been pounding on him, instead.

The gundanium bands that held the huge, solid planks together were covered with a thin dusting of ice crystals. There was no lock on the gate, just a latch. Any outsider would find their skin frozen to metal, the only option of removal being to tear away the very flesh from their body.

Heero was cold enough that it was no longer an issue. At the end of each watch, his hands lifted the heavy latch with no trouble. His fingers slid across the metal with ease. You could not freeze what was already frozen.

It was about mid-watch, now. Uneventful, as it often was. It had been a long time since anybody had tried to enter the kingdom beyond the gate. Word had spread, and the curiousity-seekers had died off not long after the first of them died.

That thought made him almost feel something. He tried to put a name to it, but it was fleeting, and didn't stay. Thinking about it, he decided the feeling must have been satisfaction in a job well done.

Unmoving, Heero continued to keep his watch.

The first sign of movement was unexpected. It was a suggestion of something dark amidst the endless, frozen white that surrounded him, something that became more defined as it drew closer. A rider, on something that resembled a horse, but wasn't. A horse didn't have clawed feet, or tusk-like teeth protruding from its lower jaw. And its eyes faced forward, like those of a predator. They glared at Heero with a mad viciousness as it careened to a halt before him.

"Open those gates!" the rider hissed.

Heero examined the not-horse and its rider with a calm gaze. Both were larger than he'd thought. The rider looked to be almost seven feet tall standing upright, but he wasn't sure this was a possibility. There was an odd curvature to his posture, as if he was permanently hunched. It was hard to tell much more, for it was well wrapped against the cold. The only thing that showed was two gleaming yellow eyes that glared at him with as much madness as those of its mount, and something else.

Fear.

Was the newcomer afraid of him?

Heero decided that this conclusion was premature. Most people, when looking at the contrast between their physical size and his own, erroneously concluded he was not a threat, or at least not a serious one. Going by that glare, this stranger had assumed the same, which meant there was something else he was afraid of.

How interesting.

Perhaps this greater threat was back the way he had come?

The internal discussion took only seconds. "No," he replied, his voice toneless.

It seemed to take longer for the newcomer to register his reply. "What do you mean, no?" he snarled, the hiss rising in pitch to something that made Heero think of sharp objects grinding together. It was unpleasant. He ignored the sensation, and focused instead in the words.

"I will not open the gates."

"Do you know who you are talking to, boy? I could gut you, and play with your insides while you begged me to let you die -"

"Do you have time for that?" Heero interrupted.

"What?!"

"I said, do you have time to gut me and play with my insides? Whatever you are running from is still following you." He couldn't see any such follower yet, but he could hear something, a faint, unidentifiable sound that carried on the cold air.

"Nobody passes these walls!" the stranger cried. "If I go inside, they cannot follow!"

"Nobody passes these walls," Heero pointed out. "You included."

The newcomer threw back his head and screamed, a sound filled with rage and hate. When he lowered it again, it was not to look at Heero, but at the gate itself. "There's no lock. I don't need you to open them – I can do it myself."

"No, you can't." The words might have been a protest if they had held any feeling. Instead, they were merely an observation. Heero knew those gates better than any other: their weight; their strength; their hidden dangers. This newcomer couldn't open the gates.

The approaching noise became clearer. It sounded almost like – dogs? But it was more than mere barking, each cry seeming oddly resonant, almost musical. Heero felt a chill at each sound, something that made him ignore the stranger to stare past him. What could possibly be more chill than this kingdom of ice and snow?

"You don't have time," Heero said with finality. "They are coming."

"Nooo!" This time it was a wail, and the rider pulled back hard on the reins. The not-horse howled in thwarted rage at the action. It resisted, tugging against them until barbed spurs were driven into its heaving flanks. Blood welled, and froze in place. It wasn't red, but a sickly orange colour. Definitely not a horse. With another howl, it wheeled about and lunged away to the west. Heero followed the movement with his eyes, noting that they appeared to be following the line of the wall. They would find no other place to gain entrance. He turned his attention back to the direction of the sound.

It was dogs. Hounds, to be more precise. They seemed to spill out of the snow, large boisterous dogs with white or black coats, tumbling over each other. Now and then one would toss up his head and bark, the sound more like the tolling of a bell than any sound an animal made. Heero blinked, and stared.

Their ears were red.

It was particularly startling on the white hounds, who almost vanished against the snow, but the black hounds' ears were that same bloody shade, flopping about their heads as the bounded toward him.

No simple dog had ears like that.

"The Hunt," Heero breathed, the words slipping out against his will.

The Hounds of the Hunt, the Wild Hunt, which no one escaped unscathed. And the stranger thought simply crossing into the Ice Kingdom of Sanc would keep him safe? More fool him. It was well that Heero had refused him entrance, even if it was what he did to all comers anyway. Who knew what havoc the Hunt would wreak in following?

He stood stock still as the Hounds milled about him, noses scenting the frozen snow. They focused on the disturbed surface where the rider had been, but one ignored it to approach Heero. He was too busy staring at the snow, where he could see an approaching smudge of darkness growing larger.

The feel of a wet nose nudging at his knees got his attention though. He wasn't bothered by cold, so his clothes never changed – fitting shorts that ended just above the knees, and a loose tank top that was slit in back to make way for his deformity. But the feel of a wet, doggy nose against bare skin – that was a little startling.

He looked down to meet a pair of curious canine eyes. He didn't have much experience with dogs, but he was quite sure that, in addition to not having blood red ears, most dogs also didn't have eyes that held an odd glow deep inside.

The Hound threw his head back and howled.

The sound seemed to vibrate clear through him. It was loud, carrying, and left a total absence of sound in its wake. The silence was so resounding that Heero continued to stare at the dog, wondering if he had somehow been rendered deaf.

Then_ he_ spoke.

"It's very pretty, Absence, but that doesn't look much like the prey we were hunting, hey?"

Heero's head snapped up.

How had he not heard them arrive? A huge black horse stood mere feet away from him, its rider looking at him with a curious expression.

"Huh? Damn, I thought you were a statue or something!" The rider grinned.

Heero blinked.

This was the Hunt. The Wild Hunt. Yet somehow, this young man in front of him seemed the least likely candidate for such a fell occupation. Okay, the horse was more than a little imposing. And it held the same uncanny glow to its eyes as the Hounds did. But its rider, although dressed all in black, had large violet eyes, a long, chestnut-coloured braid that swung freely at his side as he leaned forward, and an engaging grin, that invited Heero to laugh at his assumption.

Of course, Heero didn't laugh.

He didn't remember the last time he had laughed, if ever. But it didn't seem the time to start when he was facing Death, however unexpectedly beautiful he was.

Instead he met the young man's gaze, and waited.

* * *

There was an exhilaration to the Hunt, something that made him feel every bit as wild as its name. When the Hunt rode out, he was Shinigami, the God of Death, and there was a feeling of such purpose to it he felt as though all his other worries disappeared.

It wasn't all riding hell for leather in pursuit of his prey. No, there was a game to it, an ebb and flow of pursuit. Once the prey knew it was found, then it was time to let it run. To let it hope, even as fear sank in. Shinigami didn't hunt the innocent. His prey was the worst kind of criminals, monsters within even if they were beautiful without, those who would go unpunished in the normal course of things. It took a lot to attract the notice of the Hunt. It was only fair that his prey feel the full measure of terror they had inflicted on others.

So he let his prey draw ahead, relying on his Hounds to keep him from escaping. Nobody had ever escaped the Hunt. Capture, and Death were inevitable. Instead he enjoyed the ride: the feel of his mount, Scythe, beneath him, the same sense of expectation quivering through the horse's powerful muscles; the jingle of harness, and the thudding of many hooves; the comments that drifted between his fellow riders. Occasionally he added one or two of his own. The conversation was far from grim. Even though the Wild Hunt had only one deadly conclusion, the Riders held no regrets. Only three Riders spoke, of course – the others were insubstantial, nothing more than wraiths. Although he led the Hunt, and his three friends had ridden to it more times than he could count, in the end it was their Hunt; for each of the ghostly figures, this was their vengeance.

The ice and snow lent this hunt an increased sense of the surreal. The black Hounds were vivid marks against the blankness of the landscape, but the white Hounds practically disappeared, only the bloody red of their ears dancing against snow to show their presence. It was still snowing, a soft, steady fall the blurred the scenery ahead.

His eyes began to pick up the shape of some kind of barrier in his path. It stretched high and wide, and his first impression was that it was some kind of cliff. He searched his memory to get an idea of where they were, exactly. He was sure there were no mountain ranges or such in this direction . . .

"We're approaching the Sanc Kingdom." He was startled enough that he said it aloud.

"Really?" Quatre asked. "Isn't that the place that built a wall around their entire country to keep everybody else out?"

"Apparently the rest of us are too bloodthirsty for their tastes," Wufei informed him. "The wall is to ensure their peace is never disturbed by our violent ways." The youngest member of the dragon clan was a dedicated scholar, and could be relied upon to know a little bit about nearly anything.

"And we're such nice, friendly people, too," Shinigami laughed.

"Can we get past it?"

"If we have to, we can." The God of Death shrugged, unconcerned. "I'm not going to let some piddly little wall stop me."

"Looks like rather a large wall to me," Quatre opined.

"I doubt our prey could get in, anyway. The Hounds are stopping for something." He tightened his knees about Scythe, and the horse leaped forward eagerly.

He found the pack milling about in front of a large pair of gates. Clearly even the Sanc Kingdom believed in leaving some way in or out, Shinigami thought with cynical amusement. Probably so they didn't have to give up all the luxuries of the outside world, whatever their self-righteous morals proclaimed.

Absence, the pack's alpha dog, was sniffing around what looked like some kind of ice sculpture. It was of a youth, his head bowed, and frozen white wings arching behind him. Absence threw back his head and howled triumphantly.

Shinigami pulled Scythe to a stop just a few feet away from the odd sculpture. It was scantily clothed, and he rather thought, from what he could see, that that was a pity. If somebody was going to build beautiful ice sculptures at the gates, the least they could do was make them nude ones.

"It's very pretty, Absence, but that doesn't look much like the prey we were hunting, hey?"

He nearly swallowed his tongue when the ice sculpture looked up.

_Damn._ Cobalt blue eyes met his own unflinchingly, staring out at him from a face so impassive it might have been frozen as he'd originally thought. It startled him so much he felt himself slipping out of the easy calm of hunt mode, losing hold of Shinigami and becoming, for a moment, just Duo. Duo, who thought the youth in front of him was breathtakingly attractive, and would be outright devastating if he just smiled.

"Huh? Damn, I thought you were a statue or something!" Duo grinned, feeling oddly nervous. The boy was still staring. Why didn't he say something?

The silence stretched out a bit more. Finally, the other spoke.

"I am not a statue." The words were toneless.

Duo felt his confidence return at the absurdity of the comment. "No kidding! I guessed that part already." He laughed. "But what are you doing just standing out here? This isn't exactly the most pleasant spot I've ever seen."

Again silence stretched. "I am standing guard," the boy finally offered.

"Against what?"

Another pause. He didn't think this boy was used to making conversation.

"Against those would disturb the peace of the Sanc Kingdom."

"Hmmm. That happen a lot?"

"Nani?"

This time the response was immediate. Was he disturbing the youth? Duo hoped so. It only seemed fair.

"People wanting to disturb the peace of the Sanc Kingdom?"

He waited.

"Sometimes."

Duo waited some more.

"Less than it used to, when the wall first went up. But you are the second today."

Two whole sentences. But the second reminded him why he was here. This time, when he smiled, it wasn't a friendly look.

"And did the one who came before me pass these gates?" Shinigami asked.

That got a reaction. The boy's chin lifted a little, and there was a flash of something in his eyes. "No. I stand guard. No one may pass."

"Then I have no interest in what lies beyond. However . . ." Shinigami sat back in his saddle. "Do you know who we are?"

The boy gave a sharp nod.

"The Hunt leaves no survivors behind them. I am the God of Death; anybody who sees me has a date with their maker." Even as he said it, he continued to smile.

The youth looked back at him, steadily, no trace of fear in his expression. It was not the reaction Shinigami was used to. Didn't he have any fear of death?

Everybody was afraid of death, in his experience. There were those who didn't like to admit it, but they still felt it, behind the bravado. Maybe he just wasn't close enough to see it. He dismounted and took a few steps closer, so that they were face to face. Cocking his head to one side, he searched the boy's face for any sign of emotion.

Nothing.

"Aren't you afraid of dying?"

"No."

"Why?"

"I am a soldier. I fight. Therefore, death is always a possibility."

Shinigami considered this. "You believe you can win, and therefore live?"

"Defeat is always a possibility."

"Do you believe you will defeat me?"

"I have no information on your fighting skills and ability, or of those with you. I am aware, however, of the reputation of the Hunt. I am a very skilled soldier; but it is still possible you will defeat me. As I am greatly outnumbered, it is even likely. I will simply have to take some of you with me." He stated this easily, with no visible concern.

No sign of fear whatsoever.

It was . . . fascinating, Shinigami decided. What was so different about this boy that he was completely unafraid of death?

He was several inches taller than the boy, so as he contemplated this, his eyes drifted past him to the icy white arches that seemed to spring from his back. They were ice – or at least the outside of them was. He stared harder, and thought that he could just make out the impression of something white, and textured behind the encasing ice. Something textured like . . . feathers.

Oh.

Something twisted in his stomach, and he shifted his shoulders uncomfortably. They didn't just look like wings – they were wings, so thoroughly encased in ice that there was no way the boy could possibly fly with them. It was a horrifying thought – to never be able to fly again, and from such an artificial crippling. If he couldn't fly, he probably wouldn't care much whether he lived or died, either.

When the boy spoke, without being prompted or prodded for information at all, he jumped. "Do not underestimate me because of my deformity," the youth said sharply. "I have trained to compensate for it, and have fought with it before. None pass these gates while I keep watch."

Deformity? Didn't he – "And do you always watch these gates?"

"I require little sleep. So I am almost always on guard. Although there have been several instances when my services were required elsewhere, to better protect the peace of the Sanc Kingdom."

"Sounds like fun," Duo muttered. "And how long have you been here?"

"Since the wall was completed."

He blinked. That made him at least several decades older than he'd thought. He tried to remember exactly how long ago the infamous Sanc Wall had been completed.

"So are we going to kill him?" Quatre asked.

The interruption was startling. Duo turned to see his friends had gathered close, and were watching the exchange with interest. The wraiths hung back, apparently uninterested in this deviation from their chosen hunt. And the dogs milled about impatiently, with the exception of Absence. He sat in front of the youth, looking up at Duo with an expression of canine satisfaction.

The Hunt left no survivors behind them, but there was more than one way to meet those particular criteria, as Quatre's interruption had shown. And the way Absence looked so proud of himself . . .

Shinigami's smile took on a wicked edge. He was a firm believer in fate – and this had that feel to it.

"I can't leave any survivors behind," he told the impassive boy, and was pleased to see his next words, at least, brought about a reaction. "So I'm going to steal you instead."

* * *

"Steal me?" Heero parroted. He felt distinctly off-balance, not a feeling he was used to at all. His training had been most thorough, and most people who came to the gate either took the warning to heart and left, or faced the consequences. But this stranger insisted on asking him questions, and irrelevant ones at that. Now he thought he was going to steal him?

"Mm-hmm," the stranger hummed in agreement. "I really don't think they appreciate you enough here anyway. You'll make a fine addition to my Hunt."

"I have to guard the gates," Heero protested.

"Don't worry, I won't steal _them,_" the braided boy said, in deliberate misunderstanding. "And they show no sign of going anywhere."

"No, I must guard them or people may enter and disturb the peace of the Sanc Kingdom. It is my mission. I mustn't let anyone pass -" He was repeating himself now, in his distress, and he found himself interrupted quite firmly.

The stranger stepped closer, so that their faces were only inches apart. Heero's eyes widened. He could feel the warmth of the other's breath upon his cheeks, see into the amethyst depths that stared at him implacably even as the lips below smiled.

"I told you I leave no survivors." The words were quiet. "Either I kill you, and you cannot guard the gates, or I steal you, and you cannot guard the gates. And these gates are beginning to annoy me. If I have to kill you, I might just decide to take my annoyance out on whatever lies beyond them."

Heero had no doubt he meant just what he said. And he could not be the reason for the Hunt being drawn down on the Sanc Kingdom. It was his mission to protect it, at all costs.

"I -"

"Agree? Wonderful. Now to find you a mount." He stepped back, and clapped his hands together purposefully. "Let's see . . ." The God of Death turned, and for the first time, Heero looked past him.

Three riders were gathered close. A pale-haired boy with golden-toned skin watched with clear interest, and a slight smile playing about his lips. Beside him was a taller young man, whose long bangs hid half his face from view, giving little clue to his own reaction. And last was a slight figure, black hair drawn sharply back from an exotic face, the impassive expression belied by an intent black gaze.

The other riders, however, hung back, horses moving restlessly beneath them. There was something odd about them; they were indistinct, hard to see even though the snow was not heavy. As he watched, a horse stepped out from this group, rider-less, and picked its way delicately over the snow towards them.

"Now that is a surprise." The words drifted back to him, but he didn't think the other had meant for him to hear.

The horse came closer, pausing briefly by the stranger before moving forward to stand in front of him.

Heero looked up, not sure what his reaction should be. The horse in front of him seemed whiter than the snow itself, if that was possible, and it looked at him with eyes that seemed far too knowing for a mere animal. Such words – 'mere animal' – could never be used to describe a creature such as this. It stepped closer again, neck stretching forward, and he felt the softest brush against his skin. He held perfectly still, as a velvet-tipped nose sniffed carefully at him, a sudden warm exhalation of breath carrying with it a green scent that felt like it should be familiar.

"This is -" There was a brief hesitation from the stranger, then he continued speaking. "This is Wing. She has agreed to bear you on this Hunt."

He made it sound as if it were the horse's choice, and Heero wasn't going to argue. It – _she_ – was much bigger than he was, after all.

Wing was wearing both saddle and bridle, as if she'd been expecting a rider. Shoulders set, Heero stepped around the side, reaching for the stirrup. He'd learned to ride as part of his training, although it had been a long time since he had felt comfortable riding on a horse. His deformity unsettled them, spooking all but the most placid into nervous fits and starts at the unaccustomed rub of cold ice against warm flank, the sight of something looming at the corner of their vision. Would she be any different? He hoped so, as it had been a _very_ long time since he'd ridden, and that promised discomfort enough.

He placed both hands on the saddle, and pulled himself up. He had to lean forward considerably, angling his shoulder to see that the weight on his back cleared her rump, and he felt the impact as it bumped against hindquarters, but Wing didn't move. He settled a bit more firmly in the saddle.

"Right! Enough wasting time, we wouldn't want our quarry to escape!" The God of Death smiled, incongruously wide smile that promised mayhem, and rocked back on his heels before bouncing towards his own mount. He vaulted on with ease. "Shall we?"

The tallest of the riders pulled out a horn from under his cloak, and raised it to his lips. The sound rang out, as eerie as a howl, and the hounds bounded off.

Heero looked at the gates. They would not be easily breached, and he wondered if he was doing the right thing. If he refused, could the Hunt really pass them and wreak havoc on the lands beyond? It was a chance he didn't dare take. Besides, if he allowed the stranger to steal him, there was always the chance that maybe he could come back, and continue his mission. Maybe this stealing wasn't a permanent thing. He should ask – more information would allow him to decide if this was truly an acceptable risk. He turned to the stranger and opened his mouth to speak, but it was too late.

The black horse leaped forward after the disappearing hounds, and Heero grabbed at the reins as Wing moved to follow. The Hunt was on.

It took several minutes for him to settle himself properly. It was one thing to sit in the saddle while Wing was still, another while she was moving. He could feel the drag of the wind pulling at his shoulders, and he leaned forward, hunching them in a little. Almost immediately, Wing moved into a longer, faster stride, evening out as they both became comfortable. They'd fallen a little behind the others at first, but now they rejoined the pack of riders.

Wing moved determinedly through the press of equine bodies until she was near the front, seeming to consider it her right. His leg brushed against another rider's as they passed, but it didn't feel like he bumped anything solid. It was an odd, tingly feeling instead. Heero turned to look, and apologise, then realised hard, he could see the next horse on the other side of the rider. Or rather, he could see the next horse, _through_ the rider.

His first thought was that he wasn't real. But that was too simple an explanation: Heero could see the other rider, the way his hands held the very real reins, the way he shifted in the saddle with each stride of the horse beneath him, the intent expression on his face, even such inconsequential details as the way the seam in one sleeve was coming undone. Insubstantial was a better word. He was there, but at the same time, he wasn't.

The first Rider he'd spoken to – the one who'd named himself as the God of Death – had been very substantial. In fact, there was something about him that made his presence seem more real than anything about him. And the Riders who'd stayed close behind seemed much the same.

Heero looked around him. Yes, there were the other Riders he'd noticed. The dark-haired young man met his eyes and gave a silent nod of acknowledgement. But behind them streamed more of the insubstantial ones, slightly transparent and oddly colourless, like ghosts.

Heero's eyes flicked back to the dark horse in front of him, and the Rider swathed in a black cloak. The God of Death, he'd called himself. So were these the dead?

It seemed a logical conclusion.

Strange that the Hunt had such a reputation, yet so little was known about it. For the first time in a very long time, something outside Heero's usual pattern of existence was happening, and he could feel himself becoming more awake, more aware, in response. It was . . . interesting.

The pace the horses set was incredibly fast. The countryside seemed to fly past, a little more than the occasional dark blur against a backdrop of white. They were quickly gaining on their quarry, and Heero realised they could have caught him any time they chose.

The not-horse and his rider came into view, the dogs nipping at their heels.

"It's time." The words came from the God of Death. Despite the belling of the Hounds, and the thunder of hooves, and the rush of wind, they were perfectly clear and understandable.

The Hounds stopped simply chasing the quarry, and moved to surround him. The horses put on an additional burst of speed, overtaking them, and seemed to jostle each other for position. When they stopped, Heero found himself part of a circle of Riders and their horses, some ghostly, some not, surrounding the not-horse and its rider.

The Hounds lunged and nipped at its legs, causing it to dance and rear in panic, nearly throwing the rider off. The rider cursed, and raked again at its flanks with the spurs, tugging the reins this way and that as he looked about wildly for an escape. His actions seemed to be driving the not-horse into a frenzy, as it screamed in rage and pain, spittle frothing around the bit in its mouth.

"Enough."

The Hounds fell back, and the rider wrenched the not-horse around to the direction the word had came from. The God of Death and his dark horse stepped forward, into the circle.

"Wh- Who are you?" the rider demanded.

"Who am I, Arad Demakis? I am Shinigami, the God of Death. The Huntsman. And this is my Hunt." Shinigami smiled. "Or perhaps I should say, this is _your_ Hunt."

"How dare you! I am not some puling weakling animal, to be hunted down like this! I have power! I have magic! I will not be fooled by whatever fakery you are playing at, impostor," Arad Demakis hissed. "You will not frighten me!"

"Oh? I rather thought I already had. Or do you normally run from shadows and fakes?" Shinigami dismounted, the cloak furling about him as he did so, giving the impression, just for a moment, of a pair of black wings. "I know precisely who you are, Arad Demakis. I know about your magic. I know about your so-called power. That is why you are here. Your own actions have called the Hunt down upon you. Look around."

Demakis did so, the wrappings about his face coming undone as his head whipped about. "You! And you! And – Simeon? No!" He shook his head in violent denial, the scarf covering it falling away completely. "You're not real! You're dead, I killed you myself!"

Heero leaned forward, one of his theories confirmed, and new information to be analysed. Who knew what more he'd learn here?

"He's real enough. They all are. What's wrong? Don't like being on the other side of the equation?" Shinigami's voice was mocking. "Scythe." The last word was a flat one of command, and the dark horse moved forward with slow, deliberate steps. As soon as he was within reach of the not-horse, he lunged, teeth bared.

The not-horse reared, and this time Demakis was unseated. Scythe also rose on his hind legs, dwarfing the other animal, hooves flashing out with lightning speed. Crescent-shaped wounds appeared, leaking orange fluids. The not-horse was driven backwards, stumbling, until Scythe dropped to all four hooves again and lunged once more. This time, his teeth closed over the other animal's windpipe, biting down with crushing force. The not-horse struggled, its movements becoming weaker until its legs collapsed beneath it.

Scythe moved back, neck arched, prancing in a manner that seemed to indicate he was quite pleased with himself. He returned to Shinigami's side, dropping his head to nuzzle at one arm. The God of Death rested a hand on his neck. "Thank you, Scythe. My turn, now."

He removed the cloak, draping it over the saddle. He stalked forward, a dark blade clutched in each hand. This startled Heero, who didn't recall seeing him draw either weapon, despite watching closely. Clearly this was not an opponent to be underestimated.

Demakis was staring dazedly at the rapidly-cooling corpse of his mount. The words snapped his head around, and he stared at the approaching, black-clad form in growing horror. "Look, I have money, power, I can do things for you -"

"You have nothing I need." Shinigami moved, so quickly it was almost a blur, and a cut appeared high on Demakis' cheekbone. "The only thing I need is for you to die." Another cut appeared. "Eventually."

The ensuing minutes were difficult to call a fight. Despite his efforts, Demakis couldn't land a single blow. Shinigami moved with such speed and grace that he couldn't keep up. Even Heero, who had always considered himself quicker than most, was hard pressed to follow the braided young man, and the style of combat was nothing he'd ever seen before. Just when he thought he'd spotted something familiar, a pattern or move that he recognised, the God of Death would move in a way that was completely unpredictable.

Thick layers of clothing were reduced to a tracery of shredded fabric. Bloodied wounds showed through, but none of them were serious. Shinigami could have killed him at any time, Heero knew, but it was like the pursuit. He was toying with his prey.

Finally, the black-clad form stilled. Demakis was half-kneeling in the snow, one leg haven given way beneath him. He swayed with the effort of remaining upright, eyes wide, whimpers crawling from his throat amidst sobbing breaths.

"You can stop worrying. I'm not going to kill you."

Arad Demakis stared at the God of Death in disbelief, then in dawning hope.

One knife had vanished to wherever it original came from. Shinigami held out the empty hand, and slowly drew the other blade across the pad of his thumb. Blood welled up, joining that already coated the blade.

He leaned forward, until his face was level with Demakis' own. "That will be _their_ privilege."

Demakis looked at him with an expression of stupefied terror. The blade flashed out, bloodied tip slicing across the previously unmarked skin of his forehead.

There was an odd sound, like many throats howling in rage and triumph, and a rush of movement. The two figures in the middle of the circle disappeared amidst a roiling cloud of grey. Every now and then, Heero thought he caught a glimpse of something recognisable – an arm, a leg, a hand. A slight red tinge started to stain the cloud, and he watch as Shinigami strolled out of it, several splashes of blood decorating his nose and cheeks. He walked calmly over to his horse, and used a corner of his cloak to wipe it away.

The red-and-grey cloud began to settle, separating itself into recognisable forms. Into people. Heero recognised one of them as the ghostly Rider who had been beside him, and a quick glance verified that many of the horses were now Riderless. In fact, only three others, beside himself, were still mounted.

They still looked colourless and a little transparent, but as he watched, they turned in the direction of the dark horse and the black-clad figure at his side. Each form began to glow softly, the light infusing them with a touch of colour. One by one, they dipped their heads in a respectful bow, disappearing in a sudden flare of light.

Finally, the only thing left in the circle was the body of the not-horse, and a heap of something that resembled a bloodied pile of meat.

Heero stared at the pile. Was that all that was left of Demakis? Was it Shinigami's doing, or that of the ghosts? Or was there even a distinction, as the ghosts seemed to do the God of Death's bidding? In any way, it was no wonder the Hunt left no survivors behind.

"Well." The black-clad figure stretched, both arms reaching above his head, then let them fall with a sigh. He smiled. "That's done, time to go home." He fastened his cloak about his shoulders, and mounted up. "Hey, 'Fei, do you suppose Sally will have hot drinks waiting for us? All this snow is getting to me."

"Maybe," the dark haired youth acknowledged. "But the Valley is scarcely a cold place. And you might not be so cold by the time we get back."

"True. Ah, well, I think I'd appreciate a bath and my bed more." Shinigami smiled, a carefree smile that seemed incongruous in light of recent events. "Shall we go then?" He touched his heels to Scythe's flanks, and the stallion leapt forward eagerly.

Heero was unsurprised when Wing and the other horses immediately followed. The Hounds ran alongside, tongues lolling from open mouths. None of them barked. He could feel the drag against his shoulders and hunched them, feeling it lessen in response. His eyes remained fixed on the back of the Rider at their head.

This Shinigami was an impressive fighter, and clearly possessed unknown abilities. Watching him had been . . . fascinating. Heero had felt a touch of the adrenaline that he felt when he fought, his heart-rate increasing in response, simply from watching the other man. He was still uncertain as to whether he could really threaten the safety of the Sanc Kingdom, but for now, he decided, the best course of action was to follow along and find out what he could.

Just in case.


End file.
